extreme beauty, his desolate state, the superb ornaments with which he was covered, all conspired to render him interesting. They adopted him, and took care of his education. The most venerable of these shepherds, who loved him with a tender friendship, often felicitated him upon the fortunate destiny, which far from the dangers of grandeur and of opulence had led his infancy to the sylvan asylum of peace and virtue. Sometimes the old man would take him upon his knee, and pressing him between his trembling arms, would thus address him." My son! you enter into life by a road strewed with flowers. Even till now you have never shed a single tear: no person has abridged your innocent pleasures; and you have not yet felt that delightful frenzy which tyrannises over so many bearts: you aspire not to honours; you fear not old age. Oh, my son! You enter a path strewed with flowers. I would not trouble the tranquillity of your tender years, but alas, you must learn betimes to dread the poison of Love. My son, I can foresee the day in which that cruel child will seduce your heart by his syren ́tongue. You will believe that happiness awaits you in the delicious retreat to which he invites, and you will find but the most painful slavery. Fly, fly then; that is true courage. Feeble and timid bird, avoid that vulture, or look to perish in his grasp! Amiable child, whose eyes shine with the light of peace and innocence, may you never seɛk more vivid enjoy. ments than what your childhood has bestowed; be poor, be virtuous; bind not yourself to the car of opulence; go not to dwell in sumptuous palaces;`preserve yourself from bowing under the haughty looks of a proud protector; tremble to penetrate the dark paths by which Intrigue silently walks; remorse alone is the reward of the most fortunate crimes. When time shall have furrowed that brow new dressed in the flowers of youth, your heart will soon be environed by langour and sadness; when man verges towards decay, he is condemned to pain. Weak in the cradle, weak in old age; he dies, my son, as he is born. Nourish friendship; succour distress; attach to yourself by tenderness, the child whom Heaven may have given to your affection. That support will become one day the solace of your feebleness, and will make you taste a renewal of delight, when time shall have furrowed that brow now decorated by the flowers of youth." Soon did the young Paris become the most celebrated and the most beautiful of the shepherds. Nature recompensed him for the empire of which Fortune had deprived him. He reigned over the meadows, over the flowers of the fields, over the herbage, the Blocks, aud the hearts of the mountain nymphs, whose sighs found a sweet echo in the sounds of his lyre. Amongst them, he first saw the tender Oenone, brilliant with the freshness of youth and love; softly stealing from her gay companions, she came at the decline of day to share the bed and throne of Paris; for the mossy turf was by turns his throne and his bed. In truth, Paris lived happily; but to continue, happiness should remain concealed from others. The celebrity of the shepherd made the misery of himself and of his wife. He appeared at the public games which Priam celebrated in Troy, and his beauty attracted every eye. Hector, the eldest son of the King, after having vanquished all his opponents, was vanquished by his unknown brother. This tris umph interested the whole court: the King himself interrogated the conqueror, and recognized him for his son. Then began the fortune and finished the happiness of Paris. Oenone was the first to perceive it. Pomp, etiquette, and cold inconstancy, soon banished love from their nuptial bed; and the poor nymph learned by sad experience what it is to have a husband at court. Paris, by unanimous consent was declared the fashion, by the com. mittee of Trojan coquettes. The beauties quar relied for him, and possessed him by turns. Thus, without peace, as without enjoyment, Paris was hurried away in the whirlwind of female vanity. Nevertheless a secret sentiment brought him back to his faithful Oenone. In spite of himself he rendered jus tice to her merit, saying, with an unaffected smile:-" She has mind, she has heart; nature has endowed her soul with all the virtues; upon my honour she is a treasure; but-she is my wife." The reputation of Paris naturally extended with his conquests; he united himself in || tinction had sad consequences, since it caused his death and the ruin of his country. friendship with the God Mercury, who became his counsellor and his agent, and who finished by proposing him to the celestial court as judge of the dispute between the three Goddesses. Such was the rapid road that led Paris to distinction. But alas! that dis Allow me to postpone the history till tomorrow; I will then offer you my hand to lead you to Mount Ida; till then-keep the apple !—Adieu. (To be continued.) OAKWOOD HOUSE.-AN ORIGINAL DESCRIPTIVE NOVEL. LETTER XXVI. TO MRS. BRUDENELL. (Continued from Page 251.) Oakwood, Aug. 24, 1807. "How proud should I be," said my brother, when we were returned to the inn at Ripon, "to inclose Fountain's Abbey in my owu grounds! I should guard it with a more religious care than ever the monks did." "Give me," said Millichamp, with enthusiasin, a wife, a friend, a book, aird a cottage, in the dale of Fountain's Abbey, I ask no more in this world." "More fool you, then, for asking so little," cried Satterthwaite: "give me the Abbey, and I'd pull down every rotten arch of it to the ground, and build a handsome manufactory, || with fifteen windows on a row, and three stories high. That pretty little stream would supply all the works." "I am very glad, however," said Barbara, "that you take a wife into your scheme of happiness. I never heard you acknowledge so much before." Margaret looked as if she had heard him acknowledge it. "And pray, Charles," said I," what would you do with the Abbey ?" "Run away from it," replied he; should sleep with the old abbots, in three days, if I did not." "Well, Millichamp," said I, "if you will chuse the cottage and the book, and let me chuse the wife, I will be the friend." "I dare take you at your word," said Millichamp. "Then, Millichamp," said my brother, "enlarge your plan, and take two friends; for I will sometimes make one." "Now, my dear ma'am," said Barbara, "it rests with you to name the wife." "I shall give my apple, not to the fairest, but to the best," answered I; "and I shall take time to consider of it." "If you give it to either, you must trundle it to Miss Oakwood," said Satterthwaite. "I wish," said she, " your nephew had half your taste and politeness. I am afraid I must give him up as incorrigible." "Thank you, ma'am; I wish he had, ma'am," answered Satterthwaite :-" He has all sorts of sense but common sense; and his taste is all for them Greek and Latin authors; and I take it they don't teach much politeness. Only think of his ungenteel notions! Here, he asks but for a shabby cottage and a mean wife; I won't say any thing against his friends, because they're a credit to him; and books may be well enough, when a man has nothing to do but read 'em; when he might have a fine estate, a fine house, and, perhaps, some fine young lady into the bargain! But don't give him up, 'am. He is good-tempered; and who knows, if you can't conquer him, nobody can." Barbara well knows how to appreciate a fine estate and a fine bouse, and may possibly imagine she is a fine young lady. The next morning we set out on our return to Oakwood, by a different route from that by which we went. We passed the house and grounds of an old maid, which delighted my eyes. Her woods were cut through in differ eut directions; in straight lines, it is true, || and therefore not conformable to modern ideas of beauty; but the alleys were covered with the finest turf, and so broad, they looked like lawns. They were kept with the most scrupulous neatness, and inhabited by hundreds of hares. The lady never suffers any to be destroyed on her domain; and we saw them gamboling about in conscious security, only separated from us by a sunk fence. Some gazed at us as we passed, while others pursued their sports or avocations, visited their neighbours, or chatted in parties of half a dozen, with those they met, and did not honour us with a look. How I should rejoice to afford protection to such persecuted, such innocent animais! Like the poet Cowper, to become acquainted with them. This day's journey passed off happily, like all the preceding. The uext, when we were within ten miles of home, as we were traveling along the side of a mountain, we saw Charles Oakwood's horses set off at a great rate, and himself vainly endeavouring to stop them. There was no fence on the falling side, and they had only to go one step too near the edge, to plunge their master and Margaret down the precipice. What were our feelings! We durst not follow, lest the noise of the pursuit should augment the speed of the horses. Millichamp had just presence of mind enough to give his reins to Barbara, and beckon a servant to her assistance, when he jumped out of the gig, and ran after them with the swiftness of an arrow. We saw the horses on the brink of the precipice; when, providentially, the wheel went over a large stone, and the violence of the shock threw Charles and Margaret out on the other side. No longer in fear of doing misebief, we bastened to the spot, and found Margaret senseless in the arms of Millichamp, and Charles lying on the ground. The horses were going on, dashing the curricle to pieces. We thanked God we saw no blood. Charles soon recovered, being only stunned by the fall. Margaret did not; and Millichamp, who would not suffer any body to share his burther, carried her to a house in the valley below. My brother dispatched a servant to the nearest town for a surgeon, and we all attended her. The mistress of the house, in whom I recognized an old acquaintance, had seen the accident, and met us at the door. She con ducted us into a parlour, where Millichamp placed Margaret on a sofa, and sat down by her, holding her hand, with all his anxiety painted in his face. Barbara seemed bursting with vexation. Margaret opened her eyes, cast a vacant look around her, and closed them again. We obliged her to swallow a little cold water, which she did, without speaking. It revived her, and as soon as a bed could be prepared, she was carried up stairs, and put into it. We waited the arrival of the surgeon with an anxiety which lasted two hours. At the end of that time he came, and having examined his patient, assured us all was well. Externally she had received no other hurt than a few bruises; but he thought it proper to bleed her, and keep her quiet for two or three days. Millichamp waited for the tidings with agony, and received them with silent thankfulness. Charles had appeared truly sorry for the accident, and more on Margaret's account than his own. He now participated in our satisfaction. Even Satterthwaite rejoiced, and plainly evinced he did not wish to get rid of the mean wife her having a broken neck. Barbara alene was discontented. I thought she looked malig nant, and was now convinced she had serious designs upon Millichamp, which the undisguised interest he took in Margaret's wel. fare must completely frustrate ? at the expence of "I shall go to Oakwood, ma'am," replied she; "I think one of the family is enough to attend upon Margaret Freeman. I fear she will injure Millichamp with his uncle." The next morning Margaret was sufficiently recovered to come down to breakfast. Her father had walked from Oakwood, and was waiting to see her; Millichamp arrived soon after, bringing the mother in the gig, and they all spent the day with us. We gave Margaret another night's repose, and on the evening of the following day my brother sent the chariot for us, and we took leave of the . hospitable Mrs Spencer, with many thanks. I found Mrs. Spencer standing on the highest pinnacle of human happiness, blessed with an indulgent husband, and surrounded with a family of grown up sons and daughters. I had much pleasure in renewing my ac quaintance with ker, and recalling to mind the amusements and events of our youth. Her father was vicar of our neighbouring little market town; her mother, sister of Sir Hugh Colwyn, a baronet of the true irrascible Welch breed; and she, with her cousin, Miss Colwyn, who was younger than ourselves, had frequently been at Oakwood-house for together before I left it. 3 month monster! to find pleasure in exciting fury in the breast of a fellow-creature, and that crea ture his own child! He often tried the experimeut on his own wife, but she was more than a match for him at his own weapons, and never suffered herself to be put out of temper. Mrs. Spencer has frequently been at table with Sir Hugh and Lady Colwyn, and heard her say the most provoking things imaginable to him, with the greatess coolness, till he could bear it no longer, and has snatched up a tankard, or whatever stood next him, and flung it at her head. She never moved a hair's breadth to avoid it, but, baving received the blow, she has taken out her pocket handkerVery different had been the lot of poor Miss chief with great composure, and applied it to Colwyn from that of her cousin. I had met her face, streaming with blood. She would rewith her accidentally at Bath, nine years ago, main at table during the repast, without makand renewed our former intimacy. I found ing him any reproach, or deigning to take the her married, but without a family. Her hus-smallest notice of what had happened; and band, Mr. Lewellyn, a younger brother of profligate character, was repaying her sincere attachment to him with neglect, and sometimes with insolence. His attachment had been to the Colwyn estate, which, after a long Chancery suit, had been divided between her and her sister, the only children of their late father. I inquired after this lady. Mrs. Spencer told me she now resides with her husband, in South Wales, in a house little inferior to the family mansion, standing on that part of the estate allotted to her; and that her mother, who is still living in the mansion, is her neighbour, and has £800 a year allowed her out of the whole. Mrs. Lewellyn is extremely miserable; she not only endures the pangs of sighted love, but jealousy, too surely founded, operating on a violent disposition, little accustomed to controul, throws her into paroxysms approaching madness; and, in these, her husband his so for forgotten himself as to beat her. She has jumped out of bed to avoid his blows. Such are the extremes of wedlock! If middle states are best, as wise men have agreed, I may be thankful for the single one. Mrs. Lewellyn was brought up in a sad school for a wife. Her father took delight in putting her into a passion, for the sake of the amusement ber anger afforded him. What a would say, "Sir Hugh, shali I send you a little more of this fowl?" or whatever dish stood before her. When the cloth was drawn, she would retire; and when she entered the family apart. ment again, shewed no remembrance of the injury she had sustained, by her words; though Mrs. Spencer still saw malice in her heart, and says, she only waited another opportunity to provoke the same treatment. She is still a fine woman, though her face is cove:ed with scars from the repeated wounds she has received. Though Sir Hugh Colwyn took the liberty of behaving ill to his lady himself, it was a privilege he would never grant to any other person. Mrs. Spencer was cnce at their house at Christmas, which was then a season of great festivity in Wales. Lady Colwyn was confined to her chamber with a rheumatic fever. The guests arrived. The eating, drinking, harping, and dancing went on just the same as if she had been at the head of them. But he insisted upon his daughters visiting their mother once every day; and never failed to inquire if they had performed that duty. It happened one evening, when he met them in her apartment, that he took occasion to blame her for something he did not like, and told her it was very wrong. "Very wrong, indeed, Sir," cried Miss Ellen, the youngest daughter. "You think so, do you?" demanded he. "Certainly I do," she replied. "Why then, I must tell you, Miss Ellen," said he, "if I find fault with my wife, you shall not find fault with your mother." And without further ceremony he drove her to the top of the stairs, and faily kicked her to the bottom. The stairs came into a large ball, now filled with company, and the young lady came rolling down among them, to their great astonishment and her own dismay. She came off for a few bruises; but her dancing was spoiled for that night. During the law suit, Lady Colwyn had only a small annuity granted by the Lord Chancellor, out of the estate; and though she allowed herself but two domestics, a man and a woman, she was obliged to contract debts she could not pay, and lived in perpetual fear of her creditors. Now her income is ample, her establishment is the same. Her servants have married, and when they want the house to themselves, they pretend to see a dur-at the gate; their lady orders herself to be put to bed immediately, and lies quietly the whole day, without giving them any disturbance. At some times Mary is a great favourite; at others she will revile and curse her in the most unlimited manner, and with the greatest solemnity. In either case she seldom forgets her dignity. She has high notions of her own consequence; though she has ceased to possess or command any thing. Her servants would, doubtless, take the management of her pecuniary affairs, if her son-in-law were not so Dear. As it is, he kindly takes care of her whole revenue, and her ladyship lives upon less than half. Mrs. Spencer mimicked her lofty manner and dignified tone of voice; and while I heard her quick transitions from good sense and good breeding to the grossest cursing and swearing, I listened with astonishment and shook with laughter. I give you these anecdotes on the authority of Mrs. Spencer; but I dare answer for their truth myself. Besides my knowledge of her veracity, they carry internal evidence of their reality in their extravagance. It is such, that the most eccentric genius could not have invented them. If the Colwyn family were not exceptions to the rest of the Welch gentry, you would pronounce them far behind the English in civilization. (To be continued.) ANECDOTE OF HENRY IV. OF FRANCE. HENRY IV. of France, it is well known, was not less famed in the field of love than in that of glory; amongst the variety of ladies who, by turns, reduced the conqueror to a captive, the fair Gabrielle Destrees held the highest place in his heart; and it was in one of his nightly excursions from his camp at Ivry, to visit this beloved object, that the adventure we are about to relate took place. Henry left his camp in the disguise of a peasant, and for some time pursued his way with all a lover's ardour; but whether his head was too full of his mistress, or whether he was not perfectly acquainted with the road, we cannot decide; all we know is, that he lost his way, and after wandering about for several hours, the pangs of hunger began to supersede those of love; and perceiving at some dis. tance a light glimmering in a cottage, he hastened to it for the purp of getting some refreshment. Near the fire sat the master of the cottage, whose exterior, rude, harsh, and unprepossessing, gave the wearied traveller little to hope from his hospitality. Henry, however, accosted him, and saying that he had missed his way, requested a shelter for the night. "I don't know whether I ought to give you one," muttered the peasant, eyeing him at the same time with a look of suspicion; "these are very troublesome times, and I don't think it prudent to admit a stranger into my house." "Nay, but husband,” cried his dame, "this young mau seems very harmless, and-" |